Worth It
by zorrie
Summary: very strange fluff in which Matt has an ace up his sleeve, and Mello is... possibly ticklish?


i have returned from a three-week vacation in NV, and (if nothing else) the plane ride back was a great opportunity to scribble out some random fanfic. transcribed, but not much altered (i'm too lazy), here you go. hope it's not _too_ awful :D

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He tells me to stop or I'll hate myself in the morning, but I don't really care now, do I? Do I?

No.

So I press in closer, calculatedly smooth movements because Mello's eyes are wide and wild: he remembers, screams and pleas and final shattering gunshots, mafia nightmares and the horror of the shit we're in right now winding round his heart. Choking. I want to erase them, the stains on his mind. If he'll let me. I press fingers to his wrists and lips to his jaw, chest to chest, and we tumble down like a wrecked house of cards.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," he whispers, and well –

"Obviously not," I laugh, and I laugh, and I roll onto my back with his arm as a pillow. "But fine, fine. I'll stop if you want me to."

We stare at the ceiling, and we don't talk. Our legs are tangled together but the cheap carpet scratches my elbows. Mello smiles but then looks away, and the clock on the bedside table reads 12:01 am. The alarm goes off. There's hacking to be done, ASAP, and we shouldn't even be resting right now. Technically. Then again, technically, I shouldn't be stealing sidwards glances at Mello's lips. Itching to roll a bit closer, just an inch, feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine. I told him I was straight. And I am, really, except for this.

Who gives a fuck for technicalities?

The good and the bad are so close together I can hardly tell them apart. We've survived another night in this hellish apartment with leaking faucets and a broken fridge, and Kira hasn't killed anyone else. Yet. Good. But the thought of living another day summons nothing but a terrible ache, deep down somewhere I can't name, an ache that almost overrides the wonderfulness of Mello lying next to me.

Once every so often I even want to believe he's enjoying my company, but I don't point it out lest he realise he's let his guard down. I'm actually extremely proud that I can sometimes con Mello into being less of an asshole than he normally is, without it requiring a great deal of pain. And there are nights when he gives me as much as he can of himself, as though he's afraid of having it stripped from him and he wants to beat them to the punch. Whoever 'they' are. Then, for a while, the ache recedes. Not tonight, though.

Tonight we're just going to lie here like morons and not speak and not think, waiting in the darkness for some sort of a peace we both know will never come. Not this time, nor tomorrow, or the next. There's no peace for people who've done what we've done. He's killed, but I've infiltrated databases, leaked awful information and named my price. Forged, stolen identities, ruined lives. I haven't taken lives because I haven't had to, yet. But if I ever need to, then I will.

I'm no better.

Then there are some nights when all that falls away. We pretend we're merely us, Mail, Mihael. Kids. Not cracking under the pressure of stretching our minds to unimaginable extents, on the hunt of our lives to catch Kira. We stay up all night talking, nonsense, and Mello tells me the most ridiculous things. Like secrets clandestine and rare, only he's confiding that when we were eleven he lied about liking my goggles. He still thinks they're tacky. He was the one who hid my old gamecube, offended that I laughed at him for painting his nails. It wasn't Near who replaced the powerpoint presentation on my flashdrive with mortifying pictures of myself in fourth grade, Mello admits. But he never told anyone. Until now, when it doesn't matter anymore.

I tell him he's gone insane, because who in their right mind spends what will most likely be the last nights of their life talking about stupid gripes from their childhood? But still, I join in. I actually thought it was awesome when Mello painted his nails, but I didn't want to admit it. Until now. That time Roger summoned him to his office for incriminating security camera footage – of Mello sneaking food from the kitchen – well, I tampered the tapes. It figures, I earned a smack for that one even six years later. Mello's wrath, don't risk it.

There was the minor fiasco that resulted because Linda had explained, to my twelve year olf self, that girls weren't interested in dating if you couldn't kiss. One needed experience, practice. I didn't care so much about dating girls, but I thought practicing with Mello wouldn't be too bad. The time I told Mello it was too bad he wasn't a chick, well, I meant it as a compliment. Which I mentally retracted once he punched me in the face.

We're usually burnt-out sleep deprived zombies when we reach that point in conversation. I'd never have thought it possible to be plastered sans-alcohol, but what do you know? Thirty six hours into staring at my laptop screen until my eyes bleed and I will be officially off my face, gibbering nonsense. Giggling, for crying out loud. Thank god tonight I'm only mildly messed up, not entirely without dignity, albeit still worryingly prone to embarassing acts. For instance, tickling Mello is a Bad Idea. I realise this. We're bored, exhausted, and preparing for another grueling shift of sifting through endless data, searching for leads. And yes, Mello's shirt's ridden up and he's not being bitchy so I may even survive and it'd be so easy to… just…

He's peering at me, curiously, likely because I've been staring at his midriff unblinkingly for about a minute and a half. It's not my fault; it's there, and I have eyes, and, well. It isn't as though I'm checking him out.

Whatever I do, I am going to have to live with it for several more weeks at best, indefinitely at worst. Nobody really knows how close we are to taking down Kira, if we can at all. Making a pass at Mello is not only stupid, it's exceptionally stupid, stupider than my truly atrocious grammar at 12:15 am. I am cognizant of this as well. I am also cognizant of a very unsettling warmth in the depths of my stomach, the startling proximity of our bodies, and how very very dark it is. Digital alarm clock displays cast little light, only barely enough to see the paleness of Mello's skin before it disappears under leather. If I was awake and myself and not here, now, in the velvety blackness of 12:15 am, I would not be using words like _enticing_ and _tantalizing_ anywhere in conjunction with _Mello_. No. Most definitely not. Maybe I should let that be a warning.

Step back, Matt. Think. You don't want to mess this up, although you could probably lie and say you took Ambien and blame any regrettable decisions on that. Take a moment, think of something else.

Something else? Tacos, giraffes, kaleidoscopes and – the hell with it, this isn't working. I see Mello, and Mello is sex, Mello swathes himself in sex appeal without any apparent, conscious effort and it will be the death of me. The long, languid lines of Mello's body, highlighted by diffused and dull reddish light from LCD numerals. The scuffed gleam of leather that clings ostentatiously to his legs, _clings_ in the most obstreperously sexy way imaginable, and that doesn't even make sense. The irritating, incredibly tempting, serene half-smile he's wearing, and how angelic he looks when his face is calm - the crescent of his eyelashes against his cheeks, how chiseled those cheekbones are – _shit_ I sound like a girl.

Think of something else.

We had a conference call with Near two days ago, and it left Mello in the foulest mood. He stormed around vowing that he was done cooperating, and through, and calling it quits completely. I asked Mello how many times he was going to say the same thing using various phrases. He ignored me, but I blocked the doorway and crossed my arms. "You want to work without Near, fine," I told him. "Get a hold of yourself and we'll change our plans. PMSing won't help."

He hates when I do that, of course. Act like he's a chick, call him on his flaws, openly disagree or even have an opinion of my own at all, for that matter. Forget to put creamer in his coffee, leave the light on in the hallway, fiddle with his gun when it's loaded. Mello is easily irritated. Nonetheless, I stood there in his way, in the doorway refusing to move.

Perhaps I'd decided Mello killing me was preferable to existing in this shitty apartment. Perhaps I derived sadistic pleasure from the thought that he'd have to do twice as much work without me around. More likely, I was recklessly pushing limits for no intelligent reason at all. Either way, he stomped over, balled his hands into fists and gave me a look. One of those Looks, those patented _You're not worth the effort it takes to hurt_ scowls that, for the oddest reason, I seem to incur for everything I do. I accidentally send important emails to the wrong address, he scowls. I lock myself out of the car, he scowls. I breathe, and he goddamn scowls.

Mello scowled down at me and I still stood there, testament to either my bravery, idiocy or masochism. "Are you going to be useful now?" I asked, and yes, I raised an eyebrow. I might have smirked, I don't remember.

"Get the fuck out of my way," Mello tossed out, and went to shove past me. Halfway over the threshold he paused in passing, the two of us jammed in the doorway, probably the closest together we've been in our lives. He's an inch taller so he always looks down at me, but this time his gaze flicked to my lips. I swear. Down to my lips, and then he dragged his gaze back up to my eyes before rushing out and into the living room.

I think about that moment a lot, which is probably pathetic. I'm thinking about it now, and staring at his stomach exposed below the short short hem of his vest, the contours of his abs, the way his hips jut out. Tickling Mello is a Terrible Idea, I remind myself, but it's late, or early, whichever, and I'm not entirely rational. In fact I'm very irrational. Suddenly the possibility of being killed in my sleep by a vengeful Mello seems well worth watching him squirm, because Mello is ticklish. If you catch him at the right time, Mello is absolutely ticklish, and I have been jealously guarding this knowledge since I was five. It is the ace up my sleeve.

Now's as good a time as any.

Of course 'ticklish' and 'Mello' the seasoned mafia man in the same breath, lacking the rejoinder 'No way in Hell', is a little incongrous. A lot incongruous. But, I'm hoping ticklishness is more of a mental thing – because there are times, rare, but they do occur when I can get Mello to be the slightest bit silly. Not too much, but I'll take it.

"Hey, Mels?"

He looks over, kind of bleary eyed in a way that makes him seem innocent. Not cliché, not naïve, but softer, less like a chewed-up spit-out tough-as-nails cynical genius. Nicer. The Mello who might have been, with parents and without Kira.

"Matt, do yourself a favor and don't say anything. 'Kay?"

That's sweet, he doesn't want to ruin the moment, I think, and then, Wait, we're having a moment? Mello does not have moments. Not that I'd mind if he did. Regardless;

"Why?" I mumble, dragging out the vowel in a way that would've made me cringe - had I been fully awake and coherent, of which I'm neither.

"Be satisfied with appearing imbicilic, don't open your mouth and remove all doubt."

Perhaps the Mello who might have been would still have been a blithely sarcastic jerk. I suppose some things are inevitable.

So I give him one last glance, and maybe it is rather lingering, and maybe I unwisely give myself up when I glance covetuously at his lips, but at this point it doesn't matter. I wait for a faint tinge of realization to come to his face, and I pounce. I tickle him with the pent up fervency of years, years of knowing this was a one-time trick I could never get away with again, knowing I would have to wait and save it for the perfect moment.

Mello yelps in such an un-Mello-like way, and I can't keep from grinning because _this is it_, us rolling around on cheap scratchy carpet trying to pin the other down and laughing like we haven't laughed in lifetimes. Limbs flailing, my legs kick out and my back thumps into the floor. His fist connects with my stomach but his hair, falling across his face, and that wild smile make the oddest feelings burst inside me. Today is going to suck, and Mello is going to bitch, and I am going to run out of cigarettes and we will wind up at eachother's throats. But right now we are stupid, moronic teenagers having a good time, not completely jokingly attempting to win this impromptu scuffle-to-the-death. I'm going to have a bruised rib tomorrow, but Mello also straddled my waist to inflict it, so overall I would say this is going quite well.

It's worth it.


End file.
